in your blood, we in our brains; you believe the world was made in seven
days, we have no God; you would fight for the seven days, we would fight
for the danseuse on a bonbon box. The world will say 'fie!' at us and
love us; it will respect you and hate you. That is the law and the
gospel," he added, smiling.

"Perfect respect casteth out love" said I ironically.

He waved his fingers in approval. "By the Lord, but you are pungent now
and then!" he answered; "cabined here you are less material. By the time
you are chastened unto heaven you will be too companionable to lose."

"When is that hour of completed chastening?" I asked.

"Never," he said, "if you will oblige me with those letters."

"For a man of genius you discern but slowly," retorted I.

"Discern your amazing stubbornness?" he asked. "Why should you play at
martyr, when your talent is commercial? You have no gifts for martyrdom
but wooden tenacity. Pshaw! the leech has that. You mistake your
calling."

"And you yours," I answered. "This is a poor game you play, and losing
it you lose all. La Pompadour will pay according to the goods you
bring."

He answered with an amusing candour: "Why, yes, you are partly in the
right. But when La Pompadour and I come to our final reckoning, when it
is a question who can topple ruins round the King quickest, his mistress
or his 'cousin,' there will be tales to tell."

He got up, and walked to and fro in the cell, musing, and his face grew
dark and darker. "Your Monmouth was a fool," he said. "He struck from
the boundaries; the blow should fall in the very chambers of the King."
He put a finger musingly upon his lip. "I see--I see how it could
be done. Full of danger, but brilliant, brilliant and bold! Yes,
yes...yes!" Then all at once he seemed to come out of a dream, and
laughed ironically. "There it is," he said; "there is my case. I have
the idea, but I will not strike; it is not worth the doing unless I am
driven to it. We are brave enough, we idlers," he went on; "we die with
an air--all artifice, artifice!... Yet of late I have had dreams. Now
that is not well. It is foolish to dream, and I had long since ceased to
do so. But somehow all the mad fancies of my youth come back. This dream
will go, it will not last; it is--my fate, my doom," he added lightly,
"or what you will!"

I knew, alas, too well where his thoughts were hanging, and I loathed
him anew; for, as he hinted, his was a passion, not a deep ab